Ash
by Sarapsys
Summary: It's the only photograph that contains both himself *and* Mello.


**AN: **DN not mine, no profit being made, etc.

I really didn't mean to spend all day polishing up old ficscraps, but here I am. Again. This story I actually gave up on and just did a picture (DeviantArt-Sarapsys-A Civilized Battle) for a long time ago, but wasn't really able to incorporate everything I wanted to...so, here's the story I meant to do in the first place.

* * *

Near is leaving the House.

He is a little afraid—afraid of the unknown, of the gauntlet of crowds and small spaces he must pass through to reach his new headquarters, but he does not think he will miss the place where he grew up. There is too much on his mind, anyway, to wallow in nostalgia. Too much to do, preparations for his departure.

It's a time to destroy memories, not relive them.

Kira has been known to kill with only a face. Therefore Near cannot leave any trace of his behind.

Even now a virus is burning through the Wammy's computer system, programmed personally by Near to destroy any image file containing anything loosely recognizable as a face. It's crude, but thorough. Not that he doesn't think Roger means well, but Near can't put his faith in a security system that a child can hack.

The physical traces he's had to collect by hand, inconspicuously ransacking the orphanage for every picture of himself he knows of. Admittedly, there aren't many. Near doesn't like having his picture taken. Mello on the other hand—he's another story.

Or was, anyway. Ever since Kira, Mello started avoiding the camera too. But the small stack of photos Near has collected of Mello (Near's determined that _he _will be the one who catches Mello, _not _Kira, no, never) nevertheless far outnumbers those of himself.

And then there's this one.

He holds the picture gingerly by the corner, gazing at it in the flickering light of the library fireplace. It's a candid snapshot of a Saturday morning—the only photograph that contains both himself _and_ Mello. Near didn't even know it existed until he found it in the matron's desk.

(Stupid, he thinks, so careless.)

Time was not very strictly regimented at the House; too much organization had apparently been decided to be restrictive of their developing talents. All the same, Saturday mornings were understood as a special time of leisure. Most of the House children would spend it around the television, arguing over the remote, or outside having a game of cricket or football. For Near and Mello, however, it was a time of uneasy truce during which they practiced a more direct battle, pitting themselves against each other without the measuring stick of the House or L or grades.

Saturday morning was time for chess.

It had started one morning when a reluctant Near was indulging Linda to shut her up; the girl seemed determined to drag the reticent boy out of his Lego castles and actually interact with real people, and her incessant nagging and suggestion of chess, which he had never played, finally did it. Mello had come across them in the library, Near impassive as ever and Linda increasingly dismayed as the boy proceeded to soundly trounce her in his first attempt at the game.

"You're just letting him walk all over you," Mello had said scornfully after watching for a few turns, eliciting an angry blush from Linda. "He could have beaten you ages ago, and now the big-headed twit is just picking off all your pieces for the hell of it."

Near's mouth quirked slightly, but he made no attempt to deny Mello's accusation or reprimand the blonde for exposing his private joke.

"Well if you're so great, what would you do about it?" she retorted, embarrassed.

"Look, move _here,_" Mello said irritably, as though he couldn't believe anyone could be so obtuse, brusquely picking up her remaining knight and slamming it back down on the board.

"But…what…" Linda's brow creased. "That leaves the castle vulnerable, and opens up to his queen…"

Near, however, tilted his head and began winding a lock of hair around one finger, gazing down at the pieces more intently than he had been for the entire game.

"He's targeting your pawns so you can't get another queen," Mello said, exasperated. "You can't just coddle the pieces you like—while you're trying to protect one or two pieces, he's wiping you out. You're doing it all wrong!"

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid, Mello," Linda bristled. "I'm here, same as you, and I haven't seen _you_ beat Near any time recently."

Mello's face reddened and his fists clenched. Near, meanwhile, was ignoring their argument, and moved one of his pieces. Linda stared at the board, obviously thrown for a loop. Near curled his hair around his finger while he waited for her to move, his eyes wandering out the window. For several minutes the poor girl genius simply looked bewildered, and Mello fidgeted.

"Come on, Linda. You're making this harder than it is."

Scowling, Linda moved. Without even blinking, Near stole her knight.

"You said he was targeting pawns," Linda said accusingly, and Mello slapped a hand to his face.

"Ugh, you can't expect him to keep doing the same thing once you've figured it out. Jeez, haven't you ever played chess before?"

"Fine, _you_ play him!" Linda snapped bad-temperedly, shoving back her chair with such force that the table jerked and a few pieces toppled over.

So he did. And he lost, too—but not until he'd put Near through a grueling hour-long battle.

"You started at a terrible disadvantage," Near had remarked quietly, as Mello glared at his fallen king. The glare didn't lighten.

"I want a rematch."

They even managed to work out their own rules, Near remembers. Winner of the last game played white. No stalemates. Mind games were allowed, but Near promised not to deliberately clean out all of Mello's pieces before attempting a checkmate if Mello promised not to overturn the board in a tantrum.

And no keeping track of how many wins or losses they totaled. Not officially, anyway. That rule had been at Near's insistence, and Mello, after a long, narrow look, had agreed.

He's feeding the other photos slowly into the fire while he examines this one. (Near is busy, he has no time to relive memories, so he keeps destroying them.) Morning sunlight washes over the chess board, glowing in haloes around their fair hair; Near's chin rests on his fingers, interlaced over his drawn-up knee, and Mello is frozen in motion, tapping his bishop against the table as he plots. It's so…bright. So normal, or what Near imagines normal might be like. They don't look like children, exactly, and yet….

Whatever it is, it's not anymore. Mello is gone off, probably lurking about in the worst sorts of places with the worst sorts of people, knowing him, and Near is going to New York to lead a team of investigators, each of whom has been working in their field longer than Near has been alive, against a supernatural serial killer.

Near decides he will keep the photo, and starts to tuck it into his shirt.

But…no. Stupid, careless. What if it falls into the wrong hands? Near can't afford to take chances, not even the tiniest chance that Kira might possibly see his face.

He's running out of other photos to burn, and he can't just sit here debating.

He will rip the picture in half instead, he revises. Burn his own side, keep Mello's.

But he can't do that either. The meaning of the photo would be destroyed more surely than if it were burned whole.

There is only one other picture left, a portrait of Mello. There's nothing particularly interesting about it, no story, no memory. Near's not sure when it was taken or why. It's clear, suddenly, the smartest thing to do. He sticks _that _photo in his pocket, and drops the other into the fire.

Near waits in the darkness, stays and makes sure every scrap of Saturday morning sunlight curls into ash.


End file.
